


You've got a Friend

by Jay_Bird23



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Blood warning in later chapter, Clint is still Deaf, Clint is stressed and depressed, He has help now, I don't like Kate, Minor Swearing, Original Mute Character - Freeform, Original Nonbinary Character - Freeform, So she's not here, Writing Prompt Fic, as always, i don't know how else to tag it, we'll see, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-14 23:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14779671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_Bird23/pseuds/Jay_Bird23
Summary: Clint needs help sometimes. It's a fact of life. He's depressed and loses energy easily.Clint also has a friend who helps him.Five times OC helped Clint and the one time he helped them.This fic does include Original Characters because I love them.





	1. Depression

**Author's Note:**

> There are more times Clint has helped my character, don't get me wrong, but this is the first one that popped up when I thought of the prompt. I may do the reverse later if this gains anything.

He hadn’t meant for his nap to last this long, he really hadn’t. Clint had plans, not big ones, but plans to get his apartment together. Take out the trash. Mop the floor. Maybe clean the fridge. Finally change the lightbulb in the bathroom. He really needs to go out and get coffee. 

However, his plans were thrown out the window when he decided to take a nap. That nap lasted a full twelve hours, meaning he slept from eight in the morning until eight at night. “Damn it,” he mumbles, or at least thinks he mumbled since he took his hearing aids out before he went to sleep. “Aw naps.”

His hand moves from the couch and he wipes his face, his senses slowly returning and bringing the smell of fresh coffee with them. It would be good thing on any other basis, but considering he didn’t have coffee when he went to sleep it’s concerning. Clint pushes back the remaining wariness from his being and he pushes himself to a sit, his face being met by a tongue that causes him to sputter and fall back. “Aw Lucky. . .”

A figure moves by the doorway and Clint’s attention moves as well, locking eyes with a pair of blue lens sunglasses. It takes Clint a second to recognize the person in his doorway and he’s definitely ashamed when he remembers, especially considering how close they are.

Pat.

Pat lifts the sunglasses from their face and folds them with one hand, and hooks them over the collar of their T-shirt. Clint notes how it’s actually one of his black work shirts with his purple logo on it. He was looking for that. He also notes how the white tennis shoes they wear are also his and the leash they wind around their wrist is too.

_ Morning Bird, _ Pat signs once their hands are free.  _ Did you. . . _ Clint watches the gears in Pat’s head turn in attempt to find the right sign.  _ E-N-J-O-Y, _ they spell after a few seconds,  _ your nap? _

Clint pushes Lucky from his face and sits up again, using the back of his hand to wipe the dog slob from his face. “How did you get here?” he asks. He thinks he does. The good thing about being with Pat is that he doesn’t have to put in his hearing aids with them. They’re mute, so Clint doesn’t usually waste time with a device that’s not needed. “You can’t get into the building unless I let you in,” he goes on.

_ I tried calling you to buzz me in, _ Pat explains.  _ You didn’t answer and I got worried about you. Simone let me in and I have a key to you apartment. _

“How did you get a key to my apartment?”

Pat rolls their eyes and Clint watches their shoulders move in a tired sigh.  _ You gave it to me a while ago, _ they remind _. In case of emergencies. _

Clint hums and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. “Did you buy coffee?” he asks. “I needed coffee.”

_ I did, _ Pat replies, toeing the shoes off and walking to the couch. They also take the leash from their wrist and drop it on the - cleaned? - coffee table before sitting on the couch where Clint was just lying. Clint takes the opportunity to lie back on their lap to see what they sign next. Of course, Pat has to send him an annoyed look, but they don’t do anything else about it.  _ I also got toilet paper, a new L-I-G-H-T-B-U-L-B for the bathroom and a few meal options. All M-I-C-R-O-W-A-V-E friendly since you’re a bum. _

“There’s no need to be rude.”

_ And there’s no need for you to be on my lap and here we are. _

Clint shrugs.

Pat rolls their eyes yet again.  _ Whatever. I cleaned your house and walked Lucky. _

“What?” Clin sits up and looks around his apartment. As Pat said, the once depression cluttered apartment is now cleaned and organized. The pile of dishes that filled the sink are washed and stacked neatly in the drying rack. The beer bottle army he had growing is gone from the fold out table they had called home. Floor got sweeped and mopped. Laundry pile gone. Coffee table cleared and maybe wiped. The whole place even smells fresher and the new coffee helps even more. Pat is great. “How long have you been in my apartment?”

It takes a second for Clint to realize there’s no way he can see Pat’s response while he’s sitting up and looking away from them, so he leans back and lies across their lap once again. Pat shoots him another dirty look and again does nothing.  _ A few hours, _ they respond, showing their tiredness in their hand movements.  _ I got bored and came to bother you. You house was a W-R-E-C-K when I got here and you looked W-I-P-E-D-O-U-T. Your hearing aids were out so I wasn’t worried about bugging you and I cleaned up. _

Clint is just now noticing the purple bandaid on the side of Pat’s right hand and he frowns, letting Pat finish their final sign before reaching up and grabbing their hand. “What happened here?”

Pat tugs their hand free to respond.  _ There was a broken bottle in the tub when I was cleaning it. I thought I got all the glass out but I missed a few pieces. _

“Why weren’t you wearing gloves when you were cleaning?” 

_ Why don’t you have gloves to clean with? _

The question is a trap and Clint knows it. If he says he doesn’t have them because he doesn’t clean often - which is true - Pat’s going to call him a bum like they always do. If he says he didn’t know if people actually use gloves to clean if it’s not an actual job, Pat’s going to get on him about getting in their business. If he argues that they could have used different gloves, Pat’s going to say that they’ll use his work gloves next time. And if he says he doesn’t use gloves when he cleans, Pat’s going to say he can clean his apartment himself next time.

Ok, he doesn’t have a problem with cleaning his own place, but he just doesn’t have the energy for it. So Pat taking the initiative for him is a big help he doesn’t want to take for granted.

Pat is great.

“Did you shower before you made the coffee?” he asks instead of continuing that conversation.

_ Yes, _ Pat responds.  _ I used your shower since I changed the B-U-L-B in there and I’m wearing your clothes too. I started the coffee before me and Lucky went out. _

“Thanks, Pat,” he says, pushing himself up with a grunt before starting for the kitchen. The crumb-free hardwood feels good under his bare feet. “Can I do something to make it up to you?” Pat can’t talk. Clint takes the coffee pot from the base and turns back to see Pat’s response.

_ You have a voice and money, _ they sign.  _ Order me food. _

Cheaper and easier than paying a cleaning service or doing it himself. Pat is great. “Alright, what do you want?”


	2. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hella long time since I updated this. So here we go.

The building is coming down. Clint knows it. He’s pinned down and his leg his definitely broken and won’t move and the building he’s in is going down. It looks bad and he doesn’t know how he’s getting out of it. It feels like his leg is on fire and the smoke in the air from the actual fire in the building is making it hard to breathe. He can’t move. There’s too much enemy fire and he doesn’t have arrows to spare on shots that will miss. An exploding arrow would work, but it would bring the building down faster. 

Not that that it matters. 

A near deafening crack draws his attention up just as the ceiling comes down and- 

-Clint wakes up. Heavy breathing. Chest hurts. Sweat soaking his shirt to his skin. A hand on his shoulder.    
Not normal.

His fist moves on its own and makes contact with something. That something hits the ground and Clint is up, rolling over the back of the couch to face his threat. 

Pat sits on the floor as if they fell there, right hand planted on the ground to keep them upright as the left one holds the bottom half of their face. There’s a shock in their eyes that Clint’s not used to seeing, and it causes the pieces to fall to place in his sleep blurred mind. 

“Oh shit,” Clint says, his body relaxing as his mind switches to help mode. “Pat, are you ok?” 

Pat waves a hand and pushes themself to a stand, using the hand not holding their face to roughly shove Clint back on the couch. Then they move to the stairs and disappear upstairs. Clint can’t even bring himself to go after them. They’re probably pissed off and don’t want to be in the house again. He wouldn’t even blame them. It’s the first sleepover they’ve had in a while and he punches them in the face. That’s not something that would keep Kate around. 

A tired sigh pushes past Clint’s lips and he lets himself fall back into a lying position on the couch, burying his face in the nearest pillow. He just wants to sleep. 

Clint doesn’t know how long he stayed like that, but he’s pulled from his mope when a cold glass bottle taps the back of his neck. He doesn’t start as violently this time, but he does sit up quickly and twist his torso to see behind the couch. Pat extends a cold beer bottle out toward him as they take a sip of their own, an impatient eyebrow raised as they wave the bottle in his face a bit. They can’t even use their hands to sign right now but Clint knows they would be rushing him to accept the chilled glass. So he does. 

“You aren’t leaving?” he asks, earning a roll of the eyes from Pat as they walk around and sit on the arm of the couch near Clint’s head. At this distance Clint can see the small butterfly bandages on the bottom left corner of their mouth and around their left nostril. The bruises are starting to form as well. 

Dammit Clint, you dummy. 

“Pat-” 

_ Don’t say anything, _ Pat interrupts, holding their beer bottle tightly between their lips so they can sign properly.  _ Drink your beer and we can sleep.  _

Pat is great.

Clint allows a faint smile to flutter on his face before sitting up and opening his bottle as Pat slides down to sit on the actual couch. Clint tosses the bottle cap on the table and lifts the bottle to take a sip. The couch bounces a few times and Clint looks over in confusion just in time for Pat to settle against him. He starts slightly, but relaxes as he watches Pat lift their beer and take a swig. They don’t make any other moves to get away, and Clint can’t say he minds the contact. The physical grounding is assuring to him. It lets him know that his dream is just a dream and that he’s safe. 

Well, as safe as a powerless Avenger in Bed-Stuy can be. 

“What movie was this?” he asks, watching an animated sparkling crab throw a buff tattooed guy in the air. 

_ M-O-A-N-A _ , Pat replies with their free hand as they take another drink. They move their drink and hold it between their knees so they can properly respond.  _ It was Bug’s Life, but you fell asleep halfway through.  _

“Thanks for letting me sleep,” he says, then feels an intense guilt settle in his core. “And. . . I’m sorry for. . .ya know. . . punching you in the face.” 

Pat rolls their eyes.  _ I said don’t mention it,  _ they respond, tired bitterness dripping off of each sign. Clint doesn’t take offense to it. Pat’s naturally bitter and tired of him and he’s naturally. . . him. It’s how their relationship works because Pat is great and never gives up on him.    


_ Just don’t let it happen again, _ Pat finishes.  _ Or if you do, I get a free hit.  _

Clint hums and shifts so that his arm drapes over the back of the couch and Pat is more comfortable against him. “That’s understandable,” he agrees as Pat takes another long drink from their beer. “That definitely works.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the people who actually read this and to those who leave Kudos. Keep it up


	3. Battle Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!

Honestly, this looks bad. In fact, Clint could probably even say this is bad. His shoulder and side are screaming in pain from a - thankfully - misaimed shotgun shell. Not a slug, a pellet shot. Which hurts. A lot. Especially since he decided to make the four story fire escape climb instead of taking the elevator to his destination.

_Clint you dummy._

The archer groans as he finally slumps against the needed window, using his head to knock on the glass. After a few knocks, a desk light flicks on and Pat looks over from their bed, a tired expression on his face that shifts to annoyance when they recognize him. Clint grins widely and lifts his good arm away from the wounds and waves lazily, causing Pat’s face to shift from annoyance to terror. Clint feels bad for worrying them, but he feels even worse when his injuries scream at the slight movement.

  
Clint didn’t even see Pat get out of bed but suddenly they’re at the window, signing frantically for him to move so they can open it. He doesn’t even try to sign a comment in response and instead sticks with a shaky thumb up and letting himself slide down the wall to sit under the window. He doesn’t see Pat’s terror rise at the blood streak he leaves in his wake.

The window opens and Clint hauls himself onto the ledge with Pat’s help, making sure to sign that it looks worse than it is. He attempts to at least. What actually happens is Clint lifts his hands to sign, then wobbles and tilts to fall over. He would have gone back outside had Pat not reached out and dragged him inside by his waist.

Pat’s great. Clint just wishes they weren’t grabbing his injured side so hard.

Pat manhandles him into the house and lies him on the floor facing the ceiling. Clint can see the gears shift in Pat’s head and a new mode settle in. Well, not a new mode, per say. This isn’t the first time Clint’s shown up at Pat’s house covered in blood. Looking at that, he can’t new mode, so he’ll say next mode. The business mode. The SHIELD agent in training mode.

Their eyes steel over and they use the hair tie on their wrist to  snatch their hair back into a loose, hurried ponytail - when did Pat get an undercut? - despite Clint’s blood on their hands. He already knows how that’s going to turn out too. Once Clint’s settled and in one relatively whole piece, Pat’s going to take a deep breath to relax and then go throw up. Then after that gets sorted out, they’ll go get Lucky and bring him over here.

Pat is great.

_Don’t F-U-T-Z-I-N-G die on me, Bird,_ they sign coldly right before rising and and storming to the bathroom.

Clint didn’t even have a chance to attempt a joking response. Shit, he’s not even sure he has the strength to anymore. How long ago was he shot? How many pellets are left in him?

Firm hands grab his injured side and he’s being rolled over slightly, a knee to his back holding him in place before he’s lowered again. He’s faintly aware of the towel he’s on now as his bleeding arm and direct it to extend out beside him, he still doesn’t have the strength to protest-

Stinging. No, burning. Like someone’s pouring acid on his arm. Clint makes the strength to react to that, jerking up to try and sit only to be met with a hand on his chest. Pat’s face is stern when he looks up at them, not even needing to sign to tell Clint to lie back down. His reserve energy was used to sit up, so he nods once before letting himself fall back.

Pat’s hands are efficient in cleaning the wounds and locating the remaining pellets in his flesh, wrapping his arm before moving onto everything else. That takes a bit more time since it’s a wider area to cover, but they do it nonetheless. It hurts, but Clint bears it silently, and not just because he has no energy for it.

It’s over in about an hour and the whole thing leaves Clint feeling sore, lightheaded, and dizzy. Pat sighs breathily and runs the back of their hand across their forehead. Clint can’t even bring himself to tell them about the smear of his blood the action leaves in its wake. Their hand trembles on its way down and Pat sighs again. Then, right on cue, they practically leap to their feet and bolt back to the bathroom.

Clint sighs himself and closes his eyes, causing his ribs and side to ache. He feels everything and nothing feels good. He could fall asleep here, but that’s not part of he and Pat’s injury song and dance. They’re going to finish puking and cleaning themself up, then they’re going to come in and manhandle him into their bed and make sure he gets to sleep. In the morning, he’ll wake up with Lucky at the foot of his bed, Pat on whatever side he isn’t, and the mess they made will be completely gone. 

Clint doesn’t know how long he lies on the floor, but Pat taps his good arm to wake him. He cracks a tired eye open and his gaze meets Pat’s, their face clean of his blood and pale with the after effects of the adrenaline he shot through them. _Up,_ they sign, not a question. They already know Clint doesn’t have it in him to fight, but they have to say it anyway. They can’t break their routine.

Clint nods and starts the process of getting himself upright, aided by Pat not long after. Pat’s gentle manhandling speeds the process up and Clint’s quickly settled into Pat’s bed. He complains a few times about the pain, but that’s to be expected. Getting shot hurts. Pat disappears for a moment and then reappears with a glass of water. They don’t tell him to drink. They don’t have to since it’s all just part of the dance. When they get back with Lucky, the water will be half empty and Pat will finish the rest themself.

“Hey, Pat,” Clint says, his voice slurred at the edges and croaky. Pat turns, eyebrows knitted together in confusion as Clint lifts his hands in a thumbs up. “You’re great kid.”

The tension leaves Pat’s body like a wave and they roll their eyes, lifting a single hand to flip him the bird as they head out the bedroom. Clint smiles lazily and let’s his head flop back against the pillow. It could be a touch of blood loss talking, but Clint is very much ready to sleep. Of course he knows he probably shouldn’t sleep right now, but he hasn’t slept well for the past few days. He’s going to take what he can get at this point.

His hearing aids are removed and set on the nightstand by his head and he settles in, watching the front door open and close as Pat leaves to get his dog. He doesn’t see much else because he’s on the verge of sleep immediately. He doesn’t even have the energy to drink his half the water. Pat’s still going to drink theirs he thinks. If they don’t, he’ll just drink it all when he wakes up in the morning.

The thought doesn’t even have a chance to solidify in his mind before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know who's still here but thanks for supporting this story! I know I'm inconsistent with updates, but I'm in college and life is a fucking nightmare! 
> 
> Thanks you all! I'ma try to get better since this is supposed to be a shorter story of mine! Let's see how it works! 
> 
> Keep on rocking my guys!


	4. Free Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone's reading this, but I'm enjoying writing it. Plus I saw Endgame (Don't worry, I'm not going to spoil anything after Infinity War in this story) so my love for my Marvel people has spiked again.

Clint doesn’t even try to hide the fact he’s coming for an extended stay, Lucky panting happily at his legs as Pat looks him over with a judgemental and annoyed gaze. There’s a duffle bag in his right hand, a backpack on his back, his bow and quiver of arrows slung over both shoulders, a plastic bag of dog supplies on his left wrist and a large bag of dog food tucked under his left arm. His clothes are tattered, smoky, and very dirty from the mission that left -- luckily -- only his apartment in ashes. He’s lucky that he had some stuff stashed in another building or else he would have been shit outta luck. Ok, not really shit outta luck. He does have stuff at Pat’s house.

Which brings us here, as always. Standing in front of Pat’s apartment three and a half blocks away looking for shelter. And, as always, Pat isn’t amused. 

“Hey Patty,” he says, then cringes in remembrance. Patty is too gendered for Pat’s liking. “Sorry,” he adds quickly under the harsh glare of the small person he stands in front of. “It’s been a long day.” 

_ I see, _ Pat signs.  _ It’s four in the morning.  _

“I know,” Clint replies, lifting the hand with the bag on it to rub the back of his neck nervously. “Sorry again. Can I crash here? My place is. . . Shit, it’s gone, no way around it.”

_ What happened to the building? _ Pat inquires. 

“Everyone else is alright,” he assures quickly, already knowing that would be the next question on Pat’s fingers. “Mine just had. . .unexpected guests.”

_ I can’t imagine how that feels. _

Clint doesn’t even need to look at their face to confirm the sarcastic annoyance in Pat’s face, but he does anyway. “My money and stuff burnt up,” he informs. “I can’t get a hotel without money and I can’t call my bank until I get ahold of a phone.” 

Pat doesn’t even look relatively close to their normal levels of annoyance. They just look tired, which is to be expected given that it’s almost five in the morning. Even then, the attitude faded too fast and Pat just sighs.  _ Whatever, _ they sign before turning back into the apartment and walking toward their room. 

Something else is signed, but Clint can’t catch it since their signing with their back to him. “I can’t read what you’re saying.” Pat responds by eloquently flipping the bird over their shoulder as they cross the threshold to their room. As usual, Clint follows them inside and drops everything on the floor haphazardly. 

Pat spins on a heel.  _ I do have neighbors, _ they remind slowly.  _ If I get another noise complaint because of you, we’re done. _

Clint smiles sheepishly as he bends over to unclip the leash from Lucky’s collar. “But Lucky’ll miss you,” he points out, nudging said dog forward with his knee for emphasis. Lucky does as prompted and launches himself forward toward Pat, nearly taking them to the ground with the force of his affection. “See,” Clint continues, his smile relaxing as Pat smiles when Lucky starts licking their face. “He loves you.” 

_ I’ll steal him, _ they sign in bursts while petting Lucky.  _ He won’t miss me if he’s mine. _

Clint furrows his brow in thought. “I don’t think it’ll be right for you to steal the dog I stole.”

_ Two negatives cancel and make a positive. _

“No they don’t. They just make a bigger negative.”

_ Not in ma- _ Something that could be considered an attempted yelp forces itself from Pat’s throat as they are finally subdued by Lucky’s weight. There’s a dull thud as their butt hits the ground and Clint fights back a smile as they attempt to ‘wrestle’ Lucky off. 

The fall itself wasn’t bad, but it’s not what knocks the smile from Clin’t face. What does that is the small, broken, attempted sounds of distress that Pat makes as they play with Lucky. Their vocal chords may not work anymore, but it happened recent enough that Pat still forgets that they don’t. This leads to the half sounds that they’re making now, which in turns reminds Clint of the time he messed up so bad that they ended up unable to talk in the first place. 

As always when Pat tries to vocalize after a few seconds, their body doubles forward with painful sounding coughs that cause Clint to spring into action. “Alright, Luck, time to get off,” he instructs in the tone he always uses to try and control dogs. “Come on, big guy. Let them breathe.” It takes Clint gently tugging Lucky’s collar backwards to finally get him off and Clint offers Pat a hand as soon as he’s able. “You ok?”

Pat coughs a few more times into their elbow before nodding and accepting Clint’s hand. Once they’re securely on their feet and their coughing is suppressed, they actually reply.  _ I’m fine, _ they assure.  _ Throat is scratchy. Annoyed that a bird keeps ending up at my door. Other than that, I’m cool. _

Clint rolls his eyes fondly and forces the memory from his mind. Yeah, Pat’s fine. “I love you.”

Pat examines Clint for a moment before sighing through their nose and rolls their eyes.  _ Fine, _ they start slowly. From the look on their face, Clint can tell they’re trying to figure out the right signs.  _ I suppose you’re not a total pain in the A-S-S. _ Clint smiles sheepishly and opens his arms slowly for a hug. Pat stares for a moment before rolling their eyes and stepping forward, letting Clint wrap his arms around them and squeeze. 

After a few moments, ones that Clint has really needed for a while now, he breaks the embrace and stretches. “Can I bum your shower?” 

_ K-N-O-C-K- yourself out, _ Pat says, then pauses for a yawn.  _ I’m going back to sleep. _

“Go ahead, kid,” Clint says as Pat turns and heads back to their room. “Thank you.

Pat stops and spins to sign again.  _ Don’t start thanking me properly now. We’re too F-U-T-Z-I-N-G close for that now. _

Clint smiles and shrugs. “Figured I’d try it out,” he says. “But you’re right. Night squirt.” 

_ Yeah, yeah. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, thanks. Please leave a review and Kudos. Thanks all! Love you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget to comment and leave Kudos if you liked it. (Spoiler alert, comments get more action than Kudos.)


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